


you bring me home

by Frenchibi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Filled With Love, But mostly fluff, But what else is new?, Crowley is insecure, Fluff, M/M, Mindless Fluff, Wedding Fluff, a tiny bit of hurt/comfort, so sweet I gave myself three cavities while proofreading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19987630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi/pseuds/Frenchibi
Summary: It’s 45 minutes away, and Crowley cannot stop his hands from fidgeting.It's a very important day in the rest of their lives. (The pre-wedding nerves fic that nobody asked me for. Here you go.)





	you bring me home

**Author's Note:**

> _at the moment when I need you most,[you bring me home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KX-j2TE180w)_
> 
> (this is the most generic fic title ever i'm so sorry)

It’s 45 minutes away, and Crowley cannot stop his hands from fidgeting.

He’s abandoned the mirror – stupid thing was making him feel antsier by the minute, messing with his hair and conjuring imaginary wrinkles and stains on his clothes from the corner of his eye, definitely not productive. So he’s turned away – but that’s left him with no other options than to pace, and fidget, and worry.

Today’s not meant to be for worrying.

He’s not even really sure why, and that’s what’s most annoying, really. Today has been six thousand years in the making, and objectively he’s never been surer about anything.

He didn’t think he was prone to pre-emptive nerves (there’s a benefit to taking life as it comes, to winging it, to not thinking too much about plans for the future that go beyond “dinner, tomorrow night?”) – but then again, he’s no stranger to anxiety.

Christ’s sake, this isn’t a trial he’s facing, after all.

He wishes he wasn’t so fucking stressed.

He tugs his tie loose, then refastens it. Tugs it loose again – it feels weird, being so done-up. There’s too much gel in his fucking hair, isn’t there? And fuck, he’ll have to take off his sunglasses, won’t he? Shit.

He’s never felt so woefully unprepared and yet so ready for something at the same time. It’s strange and unpleasant and he wants to throw something at the nearest wall and maybe scream for fifteen minutes.

He does neither of those things, though he does aim a half-hearted kick at the foot of the mirror.

The room seems to shrink and contract around him, too-small and cramped and stifling. Fucking hell. The last time he’d felt this bad, he’d changed into a snake before he’d even finished the thought, and hid in Aziraphale’s sock drawer for a week.

Can’t very well do that now. 43 minutes. Shit.

If he were a snake right now, he’d curl up in some tiny, tiny space and sleep until he forgot what was giving him such panic, such endless energy and restlessness.

He’s never been good at pacing.

In an impulse decision, he throws open the door. Fuck this.

The corridor beyond is empty, thank Someone, and Crowley is moving without any destination in mind except the one he’ll always, inevitably end up at, no matter how far he goes. Circling back like a planet, like a satellite.

He almost forgets to knock, but catches himself at the last minute, remembering the time, the place, the day. His stomach flips.

“Yes?”

Even just that voice, just that tiny word, and the world feels like it will be okay.

“Angel,” Crowley says, and shit, his voice is doing the exposing thing, the vulnerability thing, “can I- can I come in?”

There’s a beat of silence, only a beat, and all of Crowley’s fears live in that tiny moment, expanding, swallowing everything.

Then: “I don’t believe you’re quite supposed to – but alright.”

Crowley hesitates, with his heart in his throat and his knees about to buckle.

“A-are you sure? I know this matters to you, angel, I just-“

The door opens. Tiny miracles.

Crowley clamps his mouth shut and walks inside.

“Close it behind you, would you, dear?”

Aziraphale is standing at the far end of the room, facing a mirror not unlike the one Crowley just fled from. He’s in a suit (not unheard of), but a _black_ suit, which, although they’d discussed this before – seeing it is something else entirely. He’s got a cream-colored tie, one Crowley knows matches his own suit, and he’s fussing with it.

He gives Crowley a look through the mirror, a brief glance, a glance away – and then he turns to take him in properly.

There’s weight in his gaze, and a part of Crowley regrets that this moment isn’t occurring in 42 minutes and in a different room – but a much larger part is overcome with potential relief from the ever-present strum of nerves, and that feels more important. And selfish. But the longer he’d pictured _not_ reaching out to the only person who helped, the worse he’d felt, exponentially.

A small frown crosses Aziraphale’s face – he knows. He always, always knows.

Crowley steps forward with a slight shake of his head, just so, and reaches for the tie. Fusses now, too. Loosens it up. Tightens it. Miracles a bowtie, then changes it back. His hands are shaking.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale says, and it’s soft, and the warmth in his voice could melt even the hardest of hearts.

“Just,” Crowley says, but no other words want to leave, they’d rather stay and constrict his windpipe and bring tears to the corners of his eyes.

He knows what he needs – and either Aziraphale really is a telepath, or he just knows, somehow, as well. Knows from the years upon years upon years he’s been carrying Crowley through panic attacks, been shielding him when no one else would have ever thought he’d need it, protecting him, _holding him-_

Aziraphale steps closer, and his arms come up and Crowley falls, because this is the only place he can let it go, let everything go and just _breathe._

There’s a familiar scent, a familiar embrace, a comfort, and a slowly-calming heart. A shaky breath, and another, and another, until the path is clear again.

Aziraphale has pulled him close, supporting his weight, holding him up. His hands are warm and gentle, and he catches all the fear, the jitters, the doubt, like it’s nothing. Holds.

“M’sorry, angel,” Crowley breathes, into the space where his head is tucked, against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Ruined the surprise.”

“Nonsense,” is the reply he gets, and another squeeze. “You needed something else today. I’m glad you came to find me.”

He’s said things before to that same effect – thank you for trusting, thank you for reaching out. Little reminders that it’s not a one-sided thing, even if Crowley always feels like he’s the burden. That it’s okay to want, it’s okay to need, and it’s okay to voice the need that isn’t being met. That he won’t be judged, or shunned, or cast away. Aziraphale would _never._

It’s a process. And this is a big day. The biggest.

A tiny confession, massive in size: “Christ, I’m bloody terrified.”

Aziraphale pulls back, just enough to see his face. His voice is soft. “Terrified of what?”

Crowley shakes his head. How does one even answer that?

“…nothing. Everything. I- I don’t know.”

Aziraphale takes hold of his hands, coaxes him over to the red-velvet couch. Tacky. Terrible. But it takes the weight off his ever-shaky knees. His eyes dart around the room, like they’re afraid of what they’ll find. Don’t look at the concern, don’t look it in the eye. But he can’t help it.

“Afraid of… someone interfering?” the angel asks, quietly.

Crowley shrugs. “Maybe. No. I don’t… no.” They’ve given them no reason to. That part of their lives is over. It should be, for a long time. It should be.

“So then… afraid of embarrassing yourself, dear?” A bit of a teasing tone, and Crowley feels his burden lift when he sees the soft, fond smile. “I promise I won’t hold it against you if you trip. Though I can’t guarantee I won’t be laughing.”

He wants to laugh, too, but all his body does is huff, still so strung with nerves.

Aziraphale is still holding his hands, tugging them just a little bit closer. “…not that, either, is it? Darling, are you…” He swallows, like it’s taking effort, and there’s a shadow on his face, “are you having second thoughts? I just- I want you to know that that’s alright, if that’s it. If you need more time, we can-”

Crowley shakes his head with much haste and vigor; “No, angel, God no-”

He pulls Aziraphale’s hands into his own lap, twists the small vine-y ring on his pinkie, holds them close. “I’m. I’ve always been sure about you. I just. I’m so- Fuck, I’m so terrified, that like. We do this, and then one day you’ll wake up and you’re chained to me and I’m the burden you carry for the rest of your life, I- are you sure? Angel, you could have the world, are you- do you really want-”

Even as he says it, it feels like an injustice, for him to doubt like this, for him to hurt like this, even though the angel’s shown him nothing but kindness. It’s giant and looming and it’s all that he can see, despite all the light his angel brings. And that’s it, isn’t it, the fear? That his own darkness will always overpower that light.

Aziraphale is shaking his head, and oh, oh _no,_ he’s made him cry, he’s made the angel cry-

“Crowley, Crowley, love- don’t you even dare suggest- I’ve been alive for six thousand years and nobody, nobody completes me like you do. Nobody has seen every aspect of me, and chosen to hold them in love. I have never, not ever, not even for a second- no, Crowley, look at me. Please, I need you to understand. I’ve never- _never_ ever wanted anyone but you.”

Angels don’t lie, just like demons don’t love. Crowley knows they both can - there’s enough human in both of them, shining through the cracks, but Aziraphale wouldn’t, not about this. He radiates concern, and truth, and love, oh, so much love.

This isn’t a lie, because he can taste the truth of it on the air, feel it in every crevice of his being.

“I’m sorry,” and his voice, it breaks, like tiny splinters tearing through icebergs, “angel, I know, and God, I’m so sorry-” But the angel catches him again.

“None of that,” Aziraphale says, “that is quite enough. You never have to apologize for feeling overwhelmed. My dear, that’s what I’m here for. And if you forget, or you’re afraid it’s stopped being the truth, just ask me, and I’ll tell it to you again. As many times as you need to hear it.”

Crowley ducks his head; it’s still hard to be seen like this, to be loved like this, so completely, so openly. Aziraphale, as ever, knows. He opens his arms again, pulls him in, tucks him into his shoulder. Crowley remembers to breathe.

He’s not sure how long they just sit, and breathe, and hold. Long enough for apprehension to be sucked away, and slowly creep back in – they can’t be late, not for this.

Crowley shifts, slow, reluctant. “…angel? Do you… what time is it?”

Aziraphale pulls back, equally reluctant. “Just about time to go, I’d expect. Do you feel ready?” Something in his voice says that it doesn’t matter. That he’ll slow time and stop for as long as Crowley needs.

Crowley grimaces, but his humor is returning, slowly, slowly. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Always was, really.”

The angel tuts, but it’s not offended, not really. “I think excitement is rather appropriate, don’t you? That’s the prevalent feeling, in good ceremonies, or so I’ve read.”

“…these ceremonies are usually for humans,” Crowley says, “we don’t need to conform. Though I guess you’re right about excitement. It’s… a commitment. A- a promise. That is exciting.”

Aziraphale beams. “Well, there you go.”

He pulls himself to his feet, extending a hand to Crowley as he does so. “Shall we break with tradition, and walk down together?”

Crowley thinks of the plan, thinks of the different ideas they’d has as to who would be waiting (he’d always been waiting) and who would take the walk (always toward one another, no matter where they’re coming from). Thinks how it could go both ways and make absolute ineffable sense.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do think we should.”

It feels fitting, poetic. Their own side, as always. Their way. He links their hands, and lets his angel pull him to his feet.

~

“I’m going to cry,” Aziraphale tells him, before the doors are opened. “Just- just warning you. I will. I seem to be incessantly emotional today.”

Crowley turns to face him, through his own watery eyes. “Bet I’ll beat you to it.”

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm soft. That is all.
> 
> (same name on tunglr dot hell, twitter, insta. Come say hi! I also make art!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [you bring me home [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072503) by [StarcatcherBetty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarcatcherBetty/pseuds/StarcatcherBetty)




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